


Sensations

by Citrine (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A four-poster bed and a bit of romance, Blind Sherlock, Bondage, Established Relationship, Gay Sex, M/M, Orgasm Denial, slightly angsty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-16
Updated: 2013-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-12 01:04:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/805350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Citrine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For Sherlock there are now only four senses, touch and taste, sound and scent. That doesn’t mean that either his feelings for John or his desires have changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sensations

**Author's Note:**

> Not much to say about this one, just a short piece which I hope you enjoy.

Silk and satin, folds of velvet under his naked body, imagined scarlet, but forever unseen. When he reaches out the shackles on his wrists clank dully and the bedpost is sun-warmed wood under his hand. Sherlock slides his fingers up over a lattice of carving. Grapes he thinks and vines. The bed shifts silently with his weight. It is too solid to creak and it leaves the groaning to him. He bites his lip now, which does not hurt overly much, but it’s just enough to suppress any sound he might make.

He listens. There is a blackbird outside the window. Birdsong interlaces with the tap-tap of branches on glass. The window must be open because the rich blossom scent makes him wrinkle his nose and sneeze. And there is a drifting summer afternoon softness in the air around him.

His hand trails down the bedpost and clenches on the feather pillow. He knows his limitations. The shackles are long enough to allow him to reach up, but not down below his waist. The chains that are secured to them are not warmed by the sun. If he touches the links they are icy and unbreakable. He will shatter before they do.  It is possible to turn onto his back and, with the iron links stretched taut, onto his side. Face down is impossible.

So he does not fight. He lies on his side with his knees drawn up to the limit of the chains and waits. After a time he dreams although he does not sleep. His phallus pulses in the rhythm of his imaginings. John would tell him that he is only making things worse for himself.  Yet there is a strange comfort in the idle dreams. He floats in a fog of sensation. Most of it is centred in the pit of his stomach. His testicles ache and there is hopeless throb in his long denied penis.

If there were anything he could do to send himself juddering into orgasm he would do it. There is not. He cannot masturbate. And no matter how he much he wriggles and strains he cannot do more than feather-kiss his penis on the silk and velvet bed coverings.

Patience then, but it not easy to lie quietly in the womb-like darkness. It is an odd juxtaposition to the feel of light on his skin. The sun’s caresses are like daylight and he is thirsty for something beyond the blackness that enshrouds him. He shifts position, blinking rapidly. He remains locked in false night.

The first whimper breaks from him and there is a hand soothing his hair. “Hush.” John’s voice pierces the darkness. “Shush, it’s okay.” 

There’s a human warmth and weight at his back. Sherlock cranes his neck until he’s able to kiss John’s palm. “You were here all the time.” It is an affirmation, not a question.

Laughter gusts John’s breath over the nape of his neck. “Where else would I be?”

Sherlock smiles. He knows that John will watch him as long as he has eyes to see. He also knows that his lover is still raw with guilt and doubt.  As if this new darkness has made him untouchable and incapable of enjoying the torments he revelled in before he was blinded.  Yet John is still erect and eager, a hard pulse of life against his spine. His lips wend a path across Sherlock’s shoulders and a strong arm encircles his waist.

“Go on,” says Sherlock. “You’ve nothing to be ashamed of. This is for us, after all that we’ve been through.”

John shivers. “I thought I’d lost you.”

John curves away from him like a broken bow and his fingers nudge in between Sherlock’s buttocks. They are well practised at this. His body knows John and it does not resist his tender advances. The gel fresh from the tube smells of almost nothing and on John’s fingers it only smells of John. 

The mattress shifts with John and when the head of his erection slips into Sherlock it rolls then even closer together. It foils John’s attempt at slowness and he slides in to the hilt. “Are you all right?” he murmurs into Sherlock’s neck and when Sherlock nods he begins to thrust.

John’s hand squeezes down on Sherlock’s hip and his penis stirs inside him. Sherlock shudders when it touches his prostrate. Lust jolts through his belly and spears fire down into his thighs, making him whimper wordlessly. His penis jerks frantically and he wants to come, wants to come, wants to come. Yet beneath the desperate need lurks the hope that John will deny him.

He is fortunate. Today, for the first time since the accident, John’s hands stay firmly on his hips and waist. John comes, moaning, deep inside him. Sherlock begs in vain and his erection weeps for the caresses John refuses to give it. The shackles thud to the floor and John embraces him, but he will not allow him to orgasm.

This is how it used to be between them. Sherlock sighs and snuggles up to John. His body pleads for release, but that pulse of unsatisfied lust reminds him that he’s still alive. That he’s in John’s arms, still himself and undefeated by the darkness.


End file.
